


House Rules

by Amehhh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:30:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amehhh/pseuds/Amehhh
Summary: James Moriarty is supposed to be dead.  That's what Sherry Thompson thinks, when he appears months later on her doorstep.  Except, he's not quite asking forgiveness.  In fact, she's not sure what he's asking for at all, and she's not sure that she wants to know.  What she is sure of is that she is no longer in his territory--he's in hers.





	1. The Prodigal Return

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all, old and new! I'm back in action!
> 
> To returning readers, thanks so much for coming back, and I hope that this is all you wanted it to be! If you're a new reader, I highly suggest reading through The Rules of Exceptions, which is the prequel to this :) Both stories are/will be published on fanfiction.net, if that's your preferred site of choice!
> 
> It's my hope that I have enough chapters written to last me through till Thanksgiving break or winter break, and then I can write even more without worrying about homework, so there should hopefully be no hiatuses in the near future.
> 
> Anyways, I'm excited to share this with you, so let's just dive right on it!

My life seemed to be in a constant tempest of work. A presentation here, afterparty there, and be sure to get your budget in before the next quarter begins. And to think that only a year and a half ago I was stressed out about an essay, which now seemed entirely easy and manageable But that essay had ended up being a milestone in my student career, so I couldn't quite complain. It ended up being the catalyst for so many other milestones, too. Those milestones were nice, but a certain milestone that was something to complain about. He had ended up giving me a nice house, a nice car, and a nice job—I gave him that much—but the quality of the cons far outweighed the quantity of the pros. He also gave me a ring, a wedding, a husband. One who was secretive and left before the sunrise and came back after sundown. One who spent hours cooped up in his office and one who constantly expected me to be there emotionally for him when his plans went awry due to others' shortcomings.

One who was alive even though he pretended to be dead. I never quite forgave him for that one, but if I were him, I would have done the same thing.

Here's how it happened: An article, a memorial, and then a metaphorical slap in the face with the new knowledge that my fiancée was dead. And not just dead, but dead at the cause of his own hand, with a gun. I'd always thought that he'd go out with a bang once I learned and accepted who he truly was, maybe from a client gone mad or even thanks to the British equivalent of a SWAT team. MI6, maybe. Just not with his own gun.

Then: Gifts at my doorstep, doubts, and then him on one knee, re-proposing when he should have been dead. He was wearing a dark three-piece as he always did, and the ring was the one that I'd left on Sherlock's tombstone in England. At the time, I didn't find this strange. I was too shocked, too nauseous, too  _faint_. Which is what I nearly did, and into his arms. To my luck, he stood and caught me before I swayed too far in any direction.

"You sure do fall in love quickly, don't you Sherry?" Were the next words out of his mouth after the dreaded "Did you miss me?" I'd never taken him for a pun person, but that one was probably too good to pass up. Maybe he thought my bubbling anger was propelled by his pun, and not by his being alive after all this time. He helped me walk into my house— _our_  house—and sat me down on a couch as though I was some bourgeois Victorian-era woman who needed a fainting chaise.

As the prickling feeling in my face calmed down and my vision became clearer, I saw that he was hovering just beside me, crouching to get at my level. I reached over and felt his face, hand gripping his chin. He had the beginnings of a light stubble that pricked at my fingers, but besides that he looked just as he did before I left England. I opened my mouth to say something, but quickly shut it when I realized I was about to say something stupid. I was going to say something like 'You're not dead?' or 'But you're supposed to be dead!,' which he clearly was not dead, nor was he supposed to be (well, not to himself, at least). So, I settled on, "How are you still alive?" I sat up to face him.

James remained crouching, below me, clearly trying to appear as though he was giving me some sort of symbolic power. "That's a long story."

Tears began to fall and my heart pounded with anger. "Of course it's long, you fucking shot yourself!"

He emitted a low whistle. "Language, Sherry. I thought that distance was supposed to make the heart grow fonder."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

" _Is_ your heart fonder, or is it just as black and shriveled as before?"

James let out a laugh. "My, you've become quite feisty in the two months I've missed you. So I'd say yes, quite fonder." He leaned in to kiss me.

I leaned back. "Don't you dare."

He raised his eyebrows in response, and I caught a glimpse of that oh-so-familiar malevolent glint in his eye. Then, darkly, "Well, this isn't quite the welcome I was expecting."

I hardened my gaze on him, doing my best to stare him down. "I know you like to give surprises. I thought you might have liked to receive one for once." A pause. "I have half a mind to call John right now, have him let Scotland Yard know that you're back on the prowl." I stood, suddenly wanting to go to the backyard and do some weeding, to uproot a few knowing that they never had a chance to survive in my garden. Weeds, at the very least, were legal to strangle.

A soft hand caught my wrist. The kind of soft hand that never had to do any dirty work of its own. "And I have a full mind to remind you that you're my contingency plan, and that if I go down, you go down with me. That would be awfully shocking to your family, wouldn't it?"

My options floated around in my mind. I could call John. I had done nothing worthy of jailtime in my life—even dating  _the_  James Moriarty, something I didn't even know I was doing until the very end—but if he could create an entirely false persona for himself in order to incriminate Sherlock was a way of having  _fun_? Well, then, I didn't want to see what he could do in order to incriminate somebody for revenge. It was decided: I wouldn't call John, and I wouldn't have him pass along the message to Scotland Yard that James was back. At least this time, it wasn't a lie. It was simply omitting the truth.

I turned to face him, noticing that he had stood up during the time I was thinking. I smiled, but we both knew that it was fake. "Where are your bags? I can help you bring them in."

He tapped my nose with his finger and allowed the corners of his mouth to turn upward, deepening his crow's feet. " _That's_  the Sherry I know."

* * *

Nowadays, his suitcases and mine were tucked away in the guest room closet. Mine were gathering dust. His weren't—he frequently left to go to New York, Boston, or some other city on the east coast. For a long time, I wondered why he simply didn't just buy a house over there, but then I realized that buying a house on the west coast must have been done to appease me. Besides, it wasn't as though there weren't a lot of big cities over here. Anyways, he offhandedly mentioned once that the area reminded him of London, and that it was better for him to distance himself from many of his clients now that he was in a sort of temporary hiding. Despite the fact that he flew across the country twice a month, of course. But that would have been silly of me to even mention.

James had just gotten back from New York, and was now spending time locked up in his office sending emails, Skyping, making phone calls, and who knew what else. It was as per our spoken agreement from all those months ago. I wanted to know nothing of his criminal career, and if he was at home while making some sort of arms deal or orchestrating some horrific act, it all had to be done within the four walls of his office. It was as per our agreement, yes, but I resented him for it.

I wanted him to spend more time outside of that room, and with me. Maybe in the living room, or the kitchen. Hell, even the bedroom would have been appreciated. But I also wanted him to stay cooped up in there. Work and the house was  _my_  domain. His office and wherever it pleased him to take me was all his. I wanted my living quarters to be untouched by his criminal hands, but at the same time would it  _kill_  him to make even the tiniest bit of small talk for once?

Even back then, I thought that he would have wanted to spend time catching up, discussing where he'd been, what he'd been doing in the time spent away. But the next thing he did after he had brought in his suitcases and unpacked them that first day was stand in his office, hands in his pocket. The prodigal husband had returned. He was gauging the room. It already had the bare bones of what he needed: a desk, a chair, a computer. But clearly, some things were still missing. The  _ambiance_  of the office was not what he wanted. Well, it wasn't my problem, so I just continued doing my own thing downstairs, slowly making my way outdoors to get to those pesky weeds.

When I was out there, I heard him rattling about indoors, opening and shutting cabinets and cupboards, surely getting a feel for the place. The noises floated out the windows. I hated that. I wanted him to ask me where things were, to walk on eggshells around me. But of course, that wasn't his style. His style was to waltz into my life again as though he had never left, as though I had suffered the repercussions of his actions. Like we were both the same when I'd left England.

In the following months, our relationship had teetered the fine line between tumultuous and passionate. Occasionally, he'd do something for me that somehow made me forget all of what he'd done to me, but most of the time, I'd remember. I was tired of going between the two, of creating such a vicious cycle, and thought myself foolish for ever imagining that it'd be any different than what it was. Months ago, I'd been naïve—and the worst part was that I  _knew_  I'd been naïve—and let my mind wander with nights together, weekend trips, and hugs around the waist while the other was cooking. I'd known that James wasn't exactly the most tender person, but did he have to be so demanding?

That night after he'd announced himself alive, I'd turned off all the lights downstairs and walked past the office, not bothering to let him know that I'd be going to bed. Clearly, he was busy. The door was shut, and I didn't dare interfere with whatever was happening between those four walls. I'd changed into my pajamas, and sat myself on my side of the bed. Placing my head into my hands, I wondered just what I was going to say to my mom.

At the beginning, I'd lied to her and said that James was away on a business trip, and he'd be gone for quite some time. After two weeks, then three, then four, I failed to update her on his happenings abroad. After I flew out to England and John told me what had happened, I continued to not say anything. It was a very  _long_  business trip. I figured that when the time came, I'd call my mom in a fit, lying that somebody had mugged and killed him, and that he defended his own life till his last breath. Now, I was somewhat grateful that I didn't have to rectify that falsified story, but at what cost?

A floorboard creaked, and I was alerted to James' presence in the doorway. "Going to bed too?" He walked in and began taking a sleepshirt out of his dresser.

I nodded. "The guest bedroom is that way," I pointed down the hall.

He looked between me and the door. "Do I look like a guest?"

"You look like a spider to me."

A curt laugh. "I didn't know you were afraid of spiders."

"I'm  _not_. I just don't like them in my sheets."

James changed, and didn't respond for quite some time. Then, he crawled into bed despite my bad temper, and stared at me, propping his head up with his arm. "Humor me. For old time's sake."

I rolled my eyes, crawled into bed myself, then turned off the lamp on the nightstand. It was a king size bed. There was plenty of room between us. If he wanted to sleep here, then fine—but if he thought we were going to do anything else, he was sorely mistaken.

He shifted, and I saw the outline of his body in front of me. He'd scooted closer, and held his arm open as an invitation. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," he murmured rapidly.

I scoffed, deciding to look up at the ceiling instead.

"I missed you. Is that what you want me to say? I missed you?"

"I don't  _care_  what you say. So we're still engaged. So we live together. So we sleep in the same bed. I don't  _care_. Just don't expect anything from me, because you're not going to get it." I rolled over, facing my side of the room instead of him.

A hand reached out and began rubbing my arm, in a vague attempt to mollify me, I guessed. "I  _don't_  expect anything from you. It'll be a  _surprise_. Just like you want." He wrapped his whole arm around me this time, in what I assumed was an effort to spoon me. "But just know that I want to surprise you, too."

No words came out of my mouth in response. I didn't want to say anything to that. Instead, I wanted to remain silent in a torrent of passive-aggressive actions and nonactions, to make him really understand just how angry I was at him. He made me think that he was dead—and not only that, but that he committed suicide—and now he wanted me to accept him back into my life with open arms. Jesus, probably with open legs, too. Disgust should have risen up in my throat, but I was too tired to let my anger continue and disturb my sleep.

His arm fit snugly around my waist, and his chest rested right up against my back. He was warm. It was a feeling I missed in those first night alone,  _truly_  alone. I thought I'd never feel him against me like that again. And just like that, a flip was switched somewhere inside of me, and my tears began to freely fall, staining my pillowcase. I was so angry, and so  _sad_ , and so, so relieved that he was here next to me and not somewhere in the ground, rotting.

I flipped over and draped my arm around his side, gripping his shoulder as though it'd help ground me. I buried my face into his chest, not wanting him to look at me in a moment of weakness, in a moment where I wasn't raging and wanting to conspire against him. I hated to admit it, but it felt good to be held, good to be comforted. Why couldn't he have just let me know that he was planning to do something so horrible? Why couldn't he have just told me that he was still alive? I asked neither of those questions, so I received no answers. Only a hand rubbing my back.

"There she is," he whispered to no one in particular. "My Sherry, my Sherry."


	2. Deceivers Ever

            I’d been spending more and more time in the guest bedroom.  At this point, I guess I could have considered it _my_ room.  I slept in here, changed in here, read in here, whatever happened in the bedroom of a single person happened in here.  The only difference was that I wasn’t single, I was married.  Still, that difference rested only in the ring I still faithfully wore.  It shone in the sunlight, and I wondered how Sherlock would deduce my relationship solely based on the band.  I knew he could tell whether I’d been cheating or not (I hadn’t), but could he tell how happy I was?  Could he tell that by a tan line or how shiny the outside still was?  It was just too bad that I wouldn’t be able to ask him.  Nor would I truly want to highlight my betrayal to him, if he were still around. 

            Recently, I’d been on a bit of an organization kick.  For months I’d neglected drawers, cabinets, and closets in pursuit of more time alone and behind a shut door.  Nowadays, I was reaping what I’d sown, and was truly regretting it.  The guest room closet was filled to the brim with old wedding supplies, outfits, and memories.  The items poured around me, entrapping me in a maze of my own design. 

            My hands flitted over a small book, one that my cousin had given James and had caused me to scoff.  It played on the old ball-and-chain imagery, as though _I_ was the one who was the warden, and _he_ the prisoner. 

            Everybody, including those so-called friends on Facebook who I had a class with in sixth or seventh grade, said that marriage was hard.  That it was never easy.  I’m sure they were right in some way, but for James and I?  There were hardly any problems in our marriage, which was sure to be met with jealousy had I actually publicly proclaimed this.  Our secret?  We’d managed to stay out of the other’s way for the better part of a year.  I’d half-moved into the guest bedroom, while he retained the master bedroom and his office.  I figured this was only fair considering I held the domain in the rest of the house.

            He was just too busy, apparently.  Occasionally, we’d eat dinner together, but even then, that was in silence _if_ we managed to sit down at the table together.  It was as though we were two boats passing in the night.  I liked it like that.  There was less to incriminate me with, that way.  The less knowledge I had about his operations, the better.  I could at least say that I slept well at night, but James?  James went to bed well after I did, yet he awoke and got to work an hour before me.  Just when did he sleep?  And where exactly did he go between waking and sleeping?

            I’d known that I’d be marrying a liar.  I just didn’t know that I’d be marrying a stranger, too.

            The time when he’d met the bulk of my family at my aunt’s house for dinner was the time I knew that I could never fully comprehend his being.  Everyone was so gullible, and he was so charming.  My family simply couldn’t resist him—not that it was hard with the accent.  I remembered being unable to resist him, once.  But surely they thought that he was out of my league, and I was positive that they wondered just how we met and fall in love.  How _I_ enticed _him_ , and not the other way around.  James told that version of our story.

            It was simple, he’d lied.  I’d apparently just gotten out of a class and was holding all of my books when he ran into me and spilled my coffee.  He offered to buy me a new one, and it all took off from there.  Love at first sight.  No mention of Sherlock, no mention of anything that had transpired between us or because of him.  The story was short and sweet, and therefore more believable than not.  The real truth remained in what he didn’t say.  It was a humbling story, one that made my younger cousin sigh and stare off into the distance dreamily.  I didn’t know why I was surprised that he could lie so well, but I was upset that he had.  Couldn’t there be just one tangible piece of truth about my time in England?

            And then he’d gone and announced that we were engaged, holding out my hand so everyone could see the ring that I’d been hiding so dutifully.  Which was the plan, but my family loved _Richard_ so much that I felt guilty about introducing someone like him into the family, not that I had much choice.  If anybody recognized him from the English tabloids or the articles surrounding Sherlock’s death, nobody said a word.  Not then, and not now.  If they did know, I wanted to understand why they didn’t jump up and scream that Richard wasn’t who he said he was, that I should avoid him.  But that didn’t happen when we first met, and it didn’t happen at the dinner. 

            My family loved him.  They adored good ol’ Irish Richard, who moved all the way to the states and left his high-paying job in England all for the pursuit of love.  They laughed at his jokes, he laughed at theirs, and I could tell that my family was so glad that I was getting married to such a _nice guy._ I didn’t know who sickened me more: him, for putting on such a good show for my family, or _me_ , for allowing everyone to believe it, to play along.  Even as much as I was sickened, I felt sad.  Why was it James that I was getting married to, and not Richard? 

            Emotionally, I was being tugged in all sorts of directions.  Whenever I looked at James, I was reminded of the life that we were supposed to have together, the kind where things were at the very least amicable.  But whenever he spoke, a newfound sense of anger startled me into being quiet, into trying to make sure he extracted nothing from me except for that which I wanted to give. 

            After nights of this, the constant tugging and pulling, the sweet eyes, the harsh words, I was tired.  And the family dinner had taken a lot out of me.  At home, I didn’t have to put up a front in order to be perceived in any certain way, but in public, in the few times we went out together, the weight of knowing James was pretending to love me burdened me.  He was a mastermind at manipulating people, so why was he trying to make me hate him?  Unless, of course, he wasn’t trying to do anything at all, which was possibly even more worrisome.  Because then, if he wasn’t trying to do anything, he didn’t care. 

            As we drove back to the house after the dinner, he looked over at me and asked, “Your family’s a rather fun group, aren’t they?  We should see them again soon.” 

            I shrugged.  I couldn’t tell if he meant it or not.  I didn’t want _my_ family to be his, too.  “They were pretty tolerable tonight.”

            Not much else was said until we were both inside, standing in the kitchen.

            James wrapped his arms around me as I was trying to make my lunch for the next day at work.  “I just don’t understand why you’re so upset all the time.  You have a beautiful house, a nice car, a big garden, and an incredible job.  And yet,” he turned me around to face him, “you still have the audacity to want _more_.”

            He gripped my arms, wrapping his hands around my scars, preventing me from walking away.  Months ago, had he stared at me with such intense eyes, I would have coiled away, walked on eggshells around his being.  But he wouldn’t have done that.  Richard wouldn’t have done that.  James would.  But no matter how angry he got with me, I was his contingency plan.  He could have gotten somebody else, or forged his own documents, but he still needed me.  I didn’t know why, and I didn’t much care.  If he needed me, then he couldn’t dispose of me so easily.

            “I want what I _deserve_ , James.  You do realize that having everything isn’t what everybody wants, right?  It might be what _you_ want, but not me.”

            “You wanted all this _months_ ago.  I seem to recall you saying that you’d do anything to get a life like mine.  Is marrying me such a bad trade?”  He hummed and smiled, trying to look less menacing than he actually was.

            I sighed.  “You also promised that you’d pretend to love me so much that I’d forget that you didn’t.”  I wrangled my arms from his clutch. 

            James lifted my chin with his finger, having to touch me now that I’d forced him to let go.  “Funny thing is, I remember you proposing that, but I don’t remember promising.  You can’t always get what you want, Sherry.  But I think that all this,” he spread his arms out as if to showcase the house, “is a pretty good compromise, don’t you?”

            He dropped his finger as I moved my head away.  If I said no, there was a chance he’d be calmly enraged, but if I said yes, then I admitted defeat.  I turned the question on him.  “Is it a good compromise for _you_?  You have to rebuild your connections, learn how to live in a different country, live in this big empty house with somebody who hates you.  You’re going to marry a woman who is average in every respect, save for her ability to lie.  That doesn’t seem like a life James Moriarty would want.”

            A short laugh.  “You don’t hate me, Sherry.  Not really.”

            “So tell me, how have you deduced that?  Impress me once more with how smart you are.”

            He brushed a lock of hair behind my ear.  Always touching me.  “Because I’ve seen the way you look at me.  Like how you just can’t wait to get married.”

            “That’s called _acting_ , James.  I was pretending.  Lying.”

            “Were you?”  He pulled back, frowning.  “I couldn’t tell.  Well, my mistake, then.”  James began to walk away.  “I’ll be in my office.  Don’t wait up for me.”

            And then I was all alone in the kitchen.  Annoyed, I went back to my meal prep, chopping carrots with more ferocity than before.  I looked to the apple slices I’d chopped just minutes prior.  They were already browning.  _Bastard_. 

            When I finished cleaning up and putting everything in the fridge, I retired to bed, slowly putting on my pajamas.  James was still typing away in his office—I could hear that much from behind the closed door.  I didn’t want to stand and strain my ears to figure out what he was doing, partially because I _didn’t_ want to know what he did in there, but mostly because I knew that he’d know that I was standing there, a little more curious than I should be, as though I were Bluebeard’s own wife. 

            His office was like Bluebeard’s castle.  Though I saw what lay in there after he moved in (a big desk, some books, a globe with lots of little pins sticking out of it), I was entirely convinced that there were bodies hanging in there as though it were a slaughterhouse.  Except, the difference between the story of Bluebeard and my life was that nobody was going to save me if I made one wrong move. 

            I rubbed my eyes, feeling drained from that night, and pre-tired for my work-week.  The only solace in our relationship could be found in our bedroom.  All of my metaphorical Bluebeard’s wrath would dissipate into the air, and I’d be too tired to remain angry in bed.  Most of the time, I woke up refreshed and ready to start anew, though that thought usually left quickly as soon as James so much as spoke one infuriating sentence.  But for now, the bedroom was enough to keep me calm.  Back then, I still slept in the main bedroom.

            He still came to bed later than I did, but in the dark we found each other.  When I wasn’t asleep, that was.  There was no streetlight to shine any brightness into the room here. 

            That night was one of the nights he crawled into bed next to me, immediately putting his arms around me without gauging any hesitation.  It had been a long night, and in my half-asleep stupor, I allowed him to remain next to me.  He was warm, and our bodies fit together so well.  Haphazardly, I intertwined my legs with his, which he accepted.  When we were like this, I could forget anything that happened during the day.  I knew that this couldn’t have possibly been healthy, but it couldn’t possibly be healthy to be angry all the time, too.  I had to choose my battles, and I saved them for when I didn’t have to wake up in eight hours. 

            I gripped one of his hands, rubbing it.  “What’s your family like?”  I mumbled.  Sometimes, I could get something true to come out from between his lips.  Usually on nights like these.  He didn’t always answer, though, asking if that was my third question.  I think it was his way of pacifying me, making sure that I wasn’t constantly angry with him.  It worked, and I knew it did.  But I didn’t care at this point—I was tired and I just wanted to know who I was engaged to.

            He surprised me by responding.  “I have a father and a mother, and a brother.  My father worked in a pub, and my mother stayed at home teaching piano.  I don’t visit them much.  Haven’t in ten years.”

            “And your brother?”

            “He was a station master.”

            “Was?”

            “He got himself run over by a train.”

            Silence followed.  “I’m sorry.”  I didn’t know what else to say.

            James ignored this.  “It was his own fault.”

            “When did you become a professor?”

            “About fifteen years ago, a couple years before my brother died.  I became a professor quicker than most do.  But by then, I’d already written my maths paper, and most universities reached out to me.  I needed the money.  So I accepted.”

             “When did you stop?”

            “A little after my brother died.  You’re awfully chatty tonight,” he hummed, helping me flip over so I could face him.  He was faintly illuminated by the red display of the alarm clock I had on my nightstand.  “I wonder if learning this about me will make you hate me any less,” James mused with a small smile appearing on his lips.

            I shook my head, feeling knots tangle in my hair against the pillow.  “No,” I said softly, placing my hand on his cheek.  “I just want to make sure you’re human.”

            He rolled over, groaning a little, opened the drawer on his nightstand, and pulled out a pocket knife.  He brought it between the two of us, and he held me tighter as I tried to inch away.  “Do you want to take a blood sample?”  He asked it so innocently.  James shifted the weapon in his hand so that the handle faced me. 

            “No, no I don’t,” I whispered, thankful when he placed it back in the drawer.

            “That’s what I thought.”  He kissed my forehead, and I felt myself tremble.  “You wouldn’t hurt a fly.  It’s endearing.”

            It was my turn to ignore him, to take the conversation back.  “Why did you stop being a professor?”

            He sighed, annoyed that I’d gotten back on topic.  “After my brother died, my family incurred a lot of debt.  It takes a surprising amount of money to take care of someone after they die.  They turned to me for help, but professors only make so much money.”  He paused, gauging my reaction.  “So I got help.  My first client was a man who wanted to kill his neighbor.  I knew how to make it look like a suicide.  And you know what, Sherry?”

            I was afraid to ask.  “What?”

            “I paid off my parent’s debt with that one crime.  With something that that man was going to do anyways.  All I did was help.”

            “How much of that was true?”

            And James just simply smiled and said, “However much you want to be.”

            I should have known back then that I couldn’t trust him.  In fact, I should have known it earlier.  Actually I _did_ know it, but I chose not to listen.  When would I finally listen to my gut and not his words?  How much did he actually speak the truth?  I first started sleeping in the guest bedroom just two months or so after that, but I should have started that night.  Ignored that whole conversation, avoided what was going to happen.  But I didn’t know any better.  How could I have?


	3. Not Love Which Alters

            The calendar stared at me ominously.  There were birthdays, appointments, events from work.  And then there, right in the center.  November fifth.  It was circled in red.  And it was in two days.  Below it was another important event, also in red.  However, that one was significantly less important in my point of view.

            I promptly ignored it on my way to work.  Whether I liked it or not, it was going to happen.  The radio was turned up, it was raining, and I tried to focus on the things I could control about November fifth, like what I was going to wear.  I mentally went through all of the formal-wear I had in my closet, then cursed myself for thinking about asking James to purchase a dress for me.  I didn’t want to be indebted to him more than I already was.  I sighed.  I’d just go downtown after work to purchase a dress—after all, I had my own savings, and I couldn’t bear the thought of James reveling in purchasing me one more thing that he could hold over my head, or take off of my body.

            Thirty minutes, deep thoughts, and some traffic later, I’d finally arrived at the theater.  Everything was chaos.  Light technicians were bemoaning a new lamp replacement, actors were already hyped up on their third cup of coffee (which was impressive, considering I’d arrived just a few minutes earlier than the workday typically began), and administrators were on hold with various journalists and critics.  Ah, show biz. 

            This was the first show I’d been given custody of (on account of the actual director going on sick leave due to an ill-fated case of walking pneumonia—something James couldn’t have possibly been accused of), and everything seemed to be falling apart.  Granted, everybody said that this stress was normal.  I wanted to believe it, having seen it with my own two eyes with the four previous shows I’d helped put together, but it was rather impossible to.  And with the director being down and out, I had nobody to turn to except for the seniors in all of the departments who all said that everything was running as smoothly as it could be.  Smoother, in fact.  I had no choice but to take their word for it.

            My phone buzzed, and I looked down to see who sent me a text.  _James_.  I rolled my eyes, but opened it in case it was important.  ‘I know today must be busy for you.  Good luck!  -JM’

            Well.  That was unexpected.  Kindness looked strange on him, and I wondered what he expected in return.  My mind immediately went to the worst case scenario as it always did with him.  If he wanted me to abandon my months-long project for a one-year anniversary dinner, he was sorely mistaken.

            As I reached my office, I shut the door to all the commotion that was happening in the main part of the building.  My computer took a couple moments to turn on, I sipped my homemade coffee, and I awaited the floods of emails that were sure to arrive in my inbox.  Now that we were so close to the opening night, I had to answer god knew how many last-minute questions, and had to ask others to make last-minute changes.  I logged into my email and groaned.  17 unread messages.  Not to mention that my answering machine light was flashing.  Today was going to be a long one.

            I ended up working through most of my lunch and took it right on home with me.  It was at times like these where I was jealous that James had an office and I didn’t, though I only really needed an office maybe two weeks out of the year.  I’d already stopped downtown and bought myself a little black dress, something that I could get away with wearing multiple times so long as I wore different shoes and scarves with it, and now I was struggling with putting together an outfit.  It had to fit the theme of the show whilst still being professional and fashionable.  I’d rather do it now than tomorrow night, when I’d likely just be answering emails until nine or ten o’ clock at night, and definitely not the morning of, when I’d be struggling to get to work an hour or two early.

            The next day was much of the same—by lunchtime, my fingers felt numb from all the emails I was typing both on my computer and my cell phone, and I was currently cleaning my telephone for the second time that day, what with how often I’d been touching it.

            A knock on the door brought me out of the intense deep-cleaning I’d done to distract me from my responsibilities.  “Come in!”

            The secretary, Amelia, entered, holding a vase of flowers.  “These just came in for you,” she sang.  “They’re from your husband.  Getting close to your anniversary?”

            I took them out of her hands and placed them on the window sill.  “Yeah, it’s uh, tomorrow, actually.”

            “Ooh, bummer that the play coincides with it.”

            I shrugged.  “Well, our anniversary could be _today_ and I don’t think I could handle that, truthfully.  Besides, he knows that the play is the thing—it’s written in all caps on our calendar, and the anniversary reminder is in teeny little lowercase characters all smudged in at the bottom.”

            She laughed.  “Are you planning on going out the next night?  You gotta spill all the details.” 

            James had come in once before, and Amelia had fallen head over heels for him.  I’d felt a little proud then, briefly glad that he was all mine and nobody else’s.  Granted, that wore out a little quickly, but it was nice for the time being.  “You know, he tends to be a little extravagant and I’m a bit more of a homebody, so we might go to a local restaurant to even it out, somewhere low-key.  I’m not too sure, it’s up to him,” I lied.  Actually, I had no idea what he was planning to do, if anything.  We both agreed that we’d still get gifts for the other, solely as a formality.  We’d even set a spending limit, as I made less money in more legal ways than he did.  The whole point of it all was to be sure I had an answer if any of my colleagues asked me what we’d exchanged.  That way, I wouldn’t have to lie and I could have something to show off.  I agreed to this deal reluctantly, though a part of me hoped that there would be a semblance of sentimentality in there somewhere.  Unfortunately, it was the same part of me that knew that that would never happen.

            “Well, who knows?  It’s bound to be exciting.”  The phone rang out on her desk.  “I gotta get that—talk to you soon.”

            I waved her goodbye, then slumped down in my chair, swiveling it so I could stare at the flowers.  I didn’t want to think about work at the moment, and I certainly didn’t want to think about home.  How did the actual director even handle all of this?  I wished I could call and ask for advice.  My phone buzzed and I picked it up.  Another text.  ‘One more day! -JM’ 

            A scowl overtook my face.  What right did he have to send me texts like those?  Then, a sigh.  If he was _actually_ trying to be nice for once, who was I to deny him the benefit of the doubt?  But then again, how much leeway could I give him?  I swiveled back to my desk, and lowered my head until my forehead hit the cool wood.  Well, at the very least, he was right.  Just one more day, and then things would calm down minimally.  After opening night, people would feel more confident, and then after a few runs, technical difficulties would be totally solved, and then it’d be calm.  For a week.  And then we’d have to start working on programs, posters, media, and who knew what else.  I groaned.  I just wanted to sleep.

 

            There was no way I was going to bed on time.  It was now the night of the performance, and I sat in my seat, ready to see the play that had taken up the greater part of my life for the past couple months.  The lights flashed, people were filing in, and I was ready to see Benedick and Beatrice interact on stage at last, in the flesh.  Their chemistry was incredible offstage, so who knew what that would do for them _on_ stage?  I folded my program—the program that had _my_ name in it—, slipped my ticket inside, and placed it into my purse.  That was going to be scrapbooked later, for sure.

            Everything was a blur, where time simultaneously slowed down and sped up.  The lights dimming took forever, the intermission took forever, but the actual play felt like it was over in the blink of an eye.  I’d laughed and cried (just a little bit), and I was so, so proud of everybody who had put this all together.  How was it possible that we had all put on such an incredible show?  I thought that my heart grew three sizes over the course of the play.

            As Benedick and Beatrice walked down the aisle in order to finally consummate their passion for each other, I drifted off into a memory, feeling only mildly bad that I was here, and not with James.  Our wedding had been small, but extravagant.  I’d only invited my family, and was hardly surprised when James didn’t invite his.  However, to my surprise, Sebastian came to be his best man (though I wasn’t sure if Sebastian was paid or not for this).  James had done a good job with my family, saying that he was mostly alone in the world now, save for me and his _new_ family, getting away with alluding to the false fact that his family simply couldn’t afford to fly over and stay in the states.  Of course, this was despite the fact that James had spent a horrific amount of money on the location of our ceremony.

            My mother walked me down the aisle that day, helping lead me through the blur of my veil.  I thought, as I was walking up, that James did look a little surprised, though I was convinced that I’d just looked at him from a weird angle.  My dress was beautiful, I had to admit, but I didn’t know if it warranted James to falter.  He’d had the money to see so many beautiful things in his life already.  But—it didn’t matter.  I’d found the dress that I loved and he paid for it without asking.  It was white, had lace sleeves, and cut off just at my knees.  I even wore the shoes he bought for me before he faked his death.  Thanks to him, my dream wedding had come true, even though I was pretty sure he did all that to get on my good side.  And, of course, save for the fact that I didn’t imagine that I’d be marrying a criminal-in-hiding.

            We stood facing each other, patiently waiting for the priest to get on with is already.  I wondered what I’d look like on the film my uncle was recording for us—not whether I looked good, or young, or fertile, but whether I looked like I was excited to kiss him, or whether I was dreading it.  At the time, I thought my face was doing a pretty good job of being neutral, but then I remembered that I still hadn’t watched the tape.  I just simply never found it necessary. 

            And finally, the vows.  I’d spent a full day scouring my sonnets book, finding the best one to use.  My family members would recognize it as Shakespeare, though I doubted that they’d understand the underlying message like James would.  That was one thing I found I’d always appreciated about him—he understood me on an academic level that nobody else could outside of my academic spheres.  I just hoped that I understood him, too.  At least on some level. 

            I went first.  I cleared my throat and began, words wobbling.  “Some glory in their birth, some in their skill.  Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force.  Some in their garments though new-fangled ill.  Some in their hawks and hounds some in their horse.  And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure, wherein it finds a joy above the rest: but these particulars are not my measure, all these I better in one general best.  Thy love is better than high birth to me, richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ cost, of more delight than hawks and horses be.  And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast: wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take all this away, and me most wretched make.”

            He smiled then, and I currently wondered how _that_ looked on camera, too.  I knew it looked warm, but I couldn’t remember if there was a sinister undertone to it, whether there was something dark behind his eyes.  And then, my breath caught in my throat as I wondered what his vows would be like, what double-message would be present in his words.  He began his vows.  “Those lips that Love’s own hand did make, breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate.’  To me that languished for her sake: but when she saw my woeful state, straight in her heart did mercy come, chiding that tongue that ever sweet was used in giving gentle doom, and taught it thus anew to greet.  ‘I hate,’ she altered with an end, that followed it as gentle day, doth follow night, who like a fiend from heaven to hell is flown away.  ‘I hate,’ from hate away she threw, and saved my life, saying ‘not you.’”

            Of course he’d chosen a sonnet, too, and probably with the same reasoning as me—it was a language that he and I could understand, laced with equivocation, dripping with falsehoods and truths.  My family had found it endearing that we both chose Shakespeare, unbeknownst to the other.  At the time, I did too, but now as I watched Beatrice and Benedick clasp hands, it wasn’t as endearing anymore.  Shakespeare was _my_ thing, and I didn’t want his grubby little hands to get all over it.  It was the one thing in my life that felt like it was my own.  Even if I _had_ given him a book about it. 

            Beatrice and Benedick kissed.  Had I not been a member of the production team, I would have been like the rest of the audience: completely convinced that their love for each other was real and true, despite them being on a stage, despite them acting.  But that’s all it really was.  It was simply an act.

            The kiss I’d shared with James after the priest permitted us was nothing below James’ standards of elegance and drama.  It was the kind of kiss that would make your grandchildren vow to only find love like that one, as they were holding the faded picture in their hands.  He’d taken my chin in his hand, kissed me tenderly, perfectly reflecting our first kiss.  And then, he’d placed his forehead on mine, and just grinned like crazy.  And so did I.  I remembered thinking at that time that maybe everything _would_ be alright, that of course there’d be struggles, but we’d persist, and wasn’t love always supposed to win? 

            I found myself wishing that there was a _Much Ado About Nothing 2_.  Maybe then I could find the answers to my questions in Shakespeare’s work. 

            The lights brightened after the cast all came out, warranting a standing ovation.  My god, I was already pre-tired from the afterparty, so I couldn’t even imagine how the actors were holding up what with all the heat, heavy costumes, and high pressure.  They’d all done marvelously, and I couldn’t wait to tell them so.  As I headed to the long line that signaled the women’s bathroom, (the afterparty was in thirty minutes), I felt a little bit of disappointment that there was nobody here to tell _me_ that _I’d_ done a good job helping put this all together.  But James was busy nearly all the time, and I didn’t think that I exactly wanted him here anyways.  Besides, the actors warranted the most pride—after all, I knew just how hard acting could be.


	4. My Bad Parts

            The reception hall was more crowded than I thought it would be.  I fought through a sea of reporters, journalists, and philanthropists just to get to the front of the room, where my coworkers stood.  Before, the room had enough space to successfully maneuver around without bumping into anybody, but clearly, getting a glass of champagne had been the downfall for my return. 

            My fingers fumbled with the notecards I’d dug out of my purse.  In just a few moments, I’d have to go up on stage and thank everybody for coming, answer questions, and hint at the show we’d be doing next.  I glanced through my notes, hoping that they’d be enough to keep me afloat until I was back down on the lower floor once more.  How on _earth_ did the director do this after each opening night?  I had thought that the performance was to be the most stressful, when really it was the speech afterwards.  Back in my undergrad, working as a receptionist, I could play the part of the ignorant woman if I didn’t know the answer to a question—people generally expected my male counterpart to have all the answers, anyway, so it had been nice to know I had a way out of a particularly stressful conversation if my knowledge was being tested.  Here, I had no way out.  Granted, I wasn’t a politician or news reporter, but if I said something wrong, there could be serious consequences for me and the company.

            The director had told me not to worry too much, that the questions weren’t that difficult anyways, but the fear of somehow not knowing the answers nearly sent me over the edge.  And worse, if I didn’t _look_ the part, I could be torn apart for that and not my knowledge.  _It’s not a red carpet event_ , I told myself as I walked up the four steps to the stage, holding my still-relatively-full glass of champagne.  After this bit, I expected that I would need it.  Whether it would be a celebratory drink or a depressed one, I didn’t know just yet. 

            As I looked onto the crowd of people, my heart fluttered.  I never thought of myself afraid of public speaking.  Then again, it was possible that I was afraid of public consequences.  Well, here went nothing.  I put on my brightest smile and tapped the microphone, signaling the beginning of my speech.  “Hello everyone, and thank you for being here tonight.  As some of you may know, the artistic director, Laura Shaughnessy, had to take medical leave just prior to the making of this show.  For those of you who don’t know who I am, my name is Sherry Brook,” I paused, making sure that the reporters had enough time to write down my name, the name that unsettled my stomach.  “I am the assistant artistic director, and it has been my pleasure and my privilege to bring you this production of _Much Ado About Nothing_.

            “Firstly, I want to thank everyone who had a part in this production.  Together, you have all made a four-hundred year-old play unique.  Each cast and team member brought something new to this production, and it shows.  Let’s give a round of applause for them!”  As the clapping rose and fell, I continued.  “Secondly, I’d like to thank those who made this afterparty possible.  So let’s have it for the caterers, bartenders, event crew, and cleaning crews.  Without _your_ hard work, we wouldn’t be here having such a good time.”  To this, I raised my glass, thankful I hadn’t needed an anxiety sip yet.  “And thirdly, I’d like to thank _you_ all for coming.  Without an audience, there couldn’t be a show.  So whether this is your first time coming to see one of our productions, or your fiftieth, thank you for your support.”

            I allowed myself a small chuckle as another round of applause went out to those congratulating themselves.  “I know by now that you’re all probably a little curious as to what our next show will be.  Is it the one you desire, the one you deserve, or the one that you will give?”  Here, I deliberately paused and sipped on my champagne.  “Please meet back here on December first, at two o’ clock for the press conference and the answer to this riddle.  However, the answer is of your own choosing.”  Another pause, this time sans champagne.  “I will now be taking questions at this time.”

            Hands shot up in the air, and as they lowered one by one, I was relieved to know that Laura was right.  They really weren’t as hard as they seemed—the questions mostly discussed how the inspiration for the posters came about, how did I collaborate with the various departments, and what did _I_ think of the final project?  All of which I already knew, and all of which I answered with much more confidence and gusto than I thought I would be able to.

            As I thanked them all again for coming, I began descending from the stage, looking to see if I knew anybody in the audience, save for my colleagues.  I scanned my eyes across all sorts of people, until I landed on a person that I knew, and he was walking towards me.  What in the world was he doing here?

            And then, when I finally met up with him, standing just to the right of my colleagues, “What in the world are you doing here?”  I put a smile on my face, trying to pretend to be receiving a delightful surprise rather than hiding supreme confusion.  “I thought you were busy!”

            “I was busy,” James said.  “I was watching your show.  I wanted to surprise you.”

            “Well,” I placed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, “you’ve achieved your goal.”  I turned to my coworkers.  “Everyone, in case you haven’t met him yet, this is Richard.  My husband.”

            As James was going around shaking hands with everybody and making pleasantries, I downed my champagne. 

            The Claudio—well, Claudi _a_ in this version of _Much Ado_ —asked James whether he’d come to this company’s productions before (no), whether he’d seen other Shakespeare productions (yes), and did he like this one? (yes he did, he very much so enjoyed it, he said, looking at me.  Barf). 

            Then, looking at me.  “I enjoyed your speech up there.   And your dress.  I haven’t seen it before.”

            “I just bought it.  I wanted something new to wear for such a special occasion,” I explained.

            “Well, you could have just asked.  I would’ve been glad to get you something nice.”

            “I know,” I said, glad that the rest of the company were now talking amongst themselves.  Nobody was paying attention to us.  “That’s why I bought it myself.”

            James fondled the seam of my sleeve, then noticed my now-empty glass.  “Can I get you more champagne?”

            Such a gentleman in front of an audience.  “Sure, that’d be great.”  Actually, it _would_ be great—he’d be the one snaking through a crowd of people and back, and not me. 

            I chatted up our Beatrice about her marriage, and what it was like to be newly married.  Unsurprisingly, the beginnings of her marriage were tainted with the occasional spat, mostly about money, but overall was overwhelmingly filled with love, talk about lowering their debt, and talk about buying a house, and talk about children, god forbid.  While I wished for a more normal marriage to my husband, I certainly didn’t miss having those kinds of talks.  When she asked what our first year was like, I paraphrased and told her that it was difficult on account that we met in England, and he moved back to the states with me.  There was a lot of homesickness and a bit of a rough patch as he was rebuilding his career. 

            James returned and placed the glass in my hand, from which I took a large gulp.  I peered at him suspiciously.  “Are you trying to grow a mustache?”  His five o’ clock shadow looked thicker than it normally did, though it could have been because of the lighting in the hall.

            He shrugged.  “Not particularly.”  And then, leaning closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder, “I thought you might enjoy it tonight.”

            My eyebrows shot up in response.

            Then, loudly and to my company: “Has Sherry told you all that it’s our one year anniversary?”

            “Oh, Richard—they don’t need to know about—”

            And then a rush of “Why didn’t you tell us?” and “Now we’re celebrating two things!”  and “Congratulations!”  flew at us at a rapid speed.  My face flushed, embarrassed that Richard had been so open about what I’d been trying to keep on the down-low.  It was _their_ night, not mine.  But, I clinked glasses with everybody and downed the rest of my champagne for the second time that night.

            I looked down at my watch, surprised to see how quickly time flew.  It was nearly midnight, and my eyes and body suddenly began to feel very tired.  It was past my bedtime, and all I could do was be thankful that it was a weekend.  I tugged on James’ sleeve and told him that I was thinking about heading home soon, and did he also want to go?  People were slowly filtering out anyways, and I was sure that the cleaning crew were patiently waiting for everybody to just leave already.  He acquiesced, and we said our goodbyes to my colleagues, who responded with multiple see you on Mondays and it was nice meeting you, Richards!  The night was almost over.  Just an hour later, and I’d be in my pajamas, ready to sleep.  I’d be in the guest room, and James would likely be in his office, probably catching up on emails and criminal business things that he’d missed by being just so _kind_ and coming to see the show.

 

            As we walked away from a chorus of goodbyes, I laced my hand in James’ to keep the illusion of our domesticity together.  It was nice to feel his hand in mine, to feel the callouses of where he held his pens, the gold band that rested on his ring finger.  It was so simple, so domestic, and yet it had been a pleasure that I’d been denied.  Once we’d weaved our way through the crowd of people, I rested my head upon his shoulder as we walked outside. 

            “Don’t worry about your car,” he said.  “I’ll drive you in on Monday.”

            “Oh.  Thank you.” 

            James opened the passenger door and shutting it behind me.  Even though he’d had it for nearly a year, it retained a new car smell, no doubt from constant and consistent upkeep.  I rested my head against the head rest, ready to fall asleep at any moment’s notice.  And then I felt a hand on my thigh. 

            “You know, I _did_ mean it when I said that I liked your speech.  And your dress.”

            “And I meant it when I said thanks.”

            His hand toyed with the hem of my dress.  “I can’t wait to take it off.”

            He’d said the same thing at our wedding reception.  Once we’d begun our first dance, he held me close and whispered in my ear that he couldn’t wait for my dress to be on the floor.  At the time, my face turned bright red and my mouth hung open in a half-smile, a stupid expression that he must have enjoyed.  Now, my reaction was mostly annoyance.  But at the time, it worked.  Once we made it back home that night, our suitcases already packed for our honeymoon trip the next day, he picked me up bridal style and carried me to our room.  Frankie Valli had said it best—oh, what a night. 

            I snorted.  “Yeah, okay.  Why don’t we start by just sleeping in the same bed, first?”

            “Must I remind you that you were the one who decided to sleep elsewhere?”

            “All the more reason we should take it slow.”  With that, I turned up the radio in the hopes that I’d fall asleep on the small drive.  His hand found mine, and he squeezed.  Really, though, just what business did he have by being so nice?  What did he have to gain in return, except for one night of sex that was practically required on a one-year anniversary?  Begrudgingly, I squeezed back.  I still hadn’t quite figured out what he wanted yet, but at least he was acting like a real husband.  It was the least I could ask for.  I didn’t want to take it for granted, but those small gestures were easy for him to deny.  And so I let them be.

            When we arrived home, I didn’t immediately change into my pajamas.  I was interested to see what made him so confident about tonight, for it certainly couldn’t _just_ be the fact that it was our one-year anniversary.  Once we’d settled in, James poured us both a glass of wine while I fished my present out from the coat closet.  The first anniversary gift was supposed to be paper, something I struggled with.  We’d put a limit on how much money we could spend on our gifts, but I went the homemade route, hoping to score some sentimentality points.  Even though I’d been upset with him for quite some time, I couldn’t just _not_ give him a thoughtful gift.  It wasn’t how I operated.  After all, I’d be quite upset if he gave me a set of post-it notes as a gift, so I figured I’d give him the same treatment I’d expected: something special.

            I let him open his first.  Once he’d taken off all the wrapping paper, he flipped through the small book with an amused smile on his face.

            “It’s a coupon book.  I know I haven’t exactly been the most pleasant…roommate—”

            “—Wife—”

            “— _wife_ recently, so I made this for you.  No matter what I’m doing or how upset I am, I’ll do whatever the coupon says.  They range from things like cleaning to more personal things.”

            He set it back down on the counter.  “Do I have to use a coupon to kiss you right now?”

            A smile cracked on my face before I could stop myself.  I shook my head.  “No, you can kiss me for free, if you’d like.”

            James kissed me, and it was a _good_ kiss.  The kind where his arm snakes around your waist to hold you, the kind where his other hand cradles your head.  “Do you want to see what _I_ got you?  I rather think you’ll like it.”

            “Well, why not?  If you’re so sure, that is.” 

            With that, he took my hand and led me upstairs.  He looked back and saw my confused expression.  But instead of leading me to the bedroom, he led me to his office.  Before he opened the door, he told me to close my eyes, because it was a little too delicate to wrap.  So I obediently closed my eyes and I heard the door swing open.  He took both of my hands and led me in, and stood me not in front of his desk, but somewhere along the wall.  “Are you ready?”  I could hear actual excitement dripping from his voice.  I didn’t think I’d ever heard him sound so excited about something before, not even an assassination.  “Open your eyes.”

            What I saw in front of me made my knees weak.  I’d only ever seen one before, in a cold room, in a glass case.  It was old, torn, and yellowed with time.  It was a folio.  And it was mine.  I touched the cover, not caring that I wasn’t wearing gloves.  I wanted to feel the paper on my fingertips, feel the pulp and the wear and tear.  “James—you—we—we had a limit on our spending.”

            He shrugged, smiling.  “It was free,” was all he said.

            My jaw dropped.  “You _stole_ a folio?  How?  From where—?”

            James turned me to face him.  “Not important.”  He paused.  “You know, I _did_ tell you a long time ago that I couldn’t locate a folio in time for your birthday.  Would you believe me if I told you that I lied?  I knew I wanted it for this moment, right now.”

            I grinned.  “Bullshit.  You didn’t know that we were going to get married.”

            A small laugh escaped his lips.  “You’re right.  But I knew from the moment that I met you that we were going to have a long future together.”

            The pendulum of our relationship swung back upwards.  I didn’t know how long it was stay in the air, and I didn’t know how quickly it’d take to crash back down.  But for now, it was enough.  It was _more_ than enough.  I grinned and laughed, the kind of laugh that crinkled your nose.  “You got me a _folio_ , James.”  With that, I gripped his shoulders and kissed him as hard as I could. 

            He playfully pushed me back towards his desk, and helped me sit on it, hiking up my dress at the same time.  He crouched down, placing kisses up my leg, each one burning more than the last.  He gripped my ankle, and looked down at my high heels then back up to me.  “Tonight, I want to see you only wearing these.”  With that, James grinned.


	5. Virtues Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for being patient with me!! Grad school is done for the term and I'll be working less and taking fewer classes, so hopefully updates should be more regular! Also, I'll be posting a little Christmas present for y'all next time so keep your eyes peeled for that!! Happy holidays <3

            When I woke up the following morning, I was entrapped in James’ arms, grateful for the warmth they provided me as I slowly became more aware of the contrast of temperatures inside the bed and out.  I rolled over to signal that I was awake, to let James know that he could get on with his day if he wanted to, that he didn’t have to wait for me.  It’d been a long time since he’d waited for me to get up, and it’d been so long since I last shared a bed with him.  Now that things were looking up, I might have to do this more often.  But, the chances of things continuing to look up were slim, so I’d just have to enjoy what I’d get. 

            “Sleep well?”  His groggy morning voice was like music to my ears.  It was so _normal_.

            “After last night?  You know I did.”  Afraid that he’d immediately get up now that he knew that I was awake, I snuggled in closer, not wanting to let go of my own personal space heater.  “How about you?”

            “I slept _very_ well.  I feel completely refreshed.”  He lifted my chin up and kissed me square on the lips, shifting so that he was hovering over me, balancing using his forearms.  “It’s still a little early.  Why don’t we pass some time?”  He repositioned himself to be balancing with just one arm, the other creeping below the covers. 

            I wrapped my arms around his neck.  “I think that’d be a very good idea.”

            An hour later, and we were breathless and I was resting my head on his chest, his heart still beating frantically.  I grabbed his hand, the one that was laying at his side and not resting upon my shoulder, and I kissed each individual finger.  I didn’t want this moment to end.  I didn’t want him to get up and pretend this never happened, or worse, to acknowledge it having happened yet denying any future chance of this happening again. 

            James looked down at me, smiling.  I knew that he was going to suggest that we get up soon, and I knew that I was going to acquiesce.  “Would you like to get dinner with me tonight?  I have reservations at a restaurant downtown.”

            No doubt it was going to be expensive and very public, but how could I deny such a proposition after such a good night and morning?  And after a stolen artifact in our house?  “That sounds great, James.  What kind of place is it?”

            “Very fancy, very high end.  Incredible wine.  You might want to wear that little black dress to impress our guests.”

            “Our guests?”

            He nodded.  “One of my clients and his wife are going to be there.  He specifically requested that he bring his wife, which isn’t exactly how I do things, but he’s rather important, so I let it slide.  It’ll be a double date.  Fun, right?”

            Oh.  So that’s why he’d been so nice to me the past few days.  It wasn’t a rekindling of our romance, nor was it out of respect to the one full rotation around the sun that we’d been married.  It was because, as always, he wanted me to do something for him, something that I did not want to do under any circumstances whatsoever.  I pulled away from him.  “You know I can’t do that.”

            James rolled his eyes.  “It’s not a matter of being able.  You just _won’t_.”

            “ _Fine_.  I _won’t_ go with you to dinner then.  You know how I feel about meeting your clients.”

            He rubbed my arm with his hand, letting his fingers glide softly across my skin.  “It won’t be like last time.”

            “You can’t guarantee that.”

            His hand grasped my arm and pulled it closer to him.  One kiss on one scar.  One kiss on another.  And so on and so forth until he reached my bicep.  Each kiss was like an electric shock, something I wanted to recoil from.  I was in the states now.  I didn’t want to be reminded of that night under any circumstance, and he knew that.  And if he didn’t before, he knew it after one of our first dinners together as a married couple.

            “Oh, but I can guarantee it.  And you _will_ come with me.”

            “ _Will_?  That’s a little overconfident, don’t you think?”

            He held up a finger, rolled out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and disappeared for a minute.  When he returned, he was holding my damned coupon book.  At the time, I knew I was giving him a lot of power, but I didn’t expect that it’d be like this.  

            I groaned as he tore out a coupon.  I took it forcefully from him, and shoved it into the nightstand drawer beside me.  _Bastard_.  “ _Fine_.  And as I said last night, I won’t complain, but I want you to know right now how unhappy I am about this.”

            He shrugged.  “It was _your_ gift.”  A pause.  “Care to join me in the shower?”

            “Piss off.”

            And he did.

            Disappointed that our romantic time had gone sour so quickly, I traipsed back into the guest room, and settled myself in there once again.  I allowed myself to lay back down in bed, staring at my arms, thinking of the last dinner we’d shared together in public. 

            In the car on our way to dinner that one night, he kept looking at me, and I thought nothing of it at the time.  He held my hand on the way over, only breaking contact when he had to shift gears.  James had said that he was looking forward to dinner, to meeting this client.  After I expressed my concern about tagging along, he told me that that meal was simply a formality, that the client liked being able to put a face to the name.  They’d met once before, but he was visiting the states, and so he wanted to reach out once more. 

            “But what if you get caught?  Then he could point your face out in a lineup.”

            James laughed.  “Nobody will ever catch me.  Besides, I could rig the jury like I did last time.  It’s not that hard.”

            “You’ve rigged a jury before?”

            He shrugged.  “Sure, lots of times.  It’s easier than it seems.  Just give them money, and they’ll do whatever you ask them to.”

            “I’d like to think that people have more morals than that.”

            “All you ever wanted was to have a life like mine, and you married me to get it.”  James looked at me with a face that was nearly judgmental. 

            I scoffed.  “You didn’t exactly give me much choice.  Besides, every little poor child grows up wanting to be rich, to have a nice house, to have a nice car.  It’s just that most of us don’t exactly get the option in the form of a man.”

            “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

            We were the first to arrive at the restaurant, and because we were the first, James had taken the liberty of purchasing a rather expensive bottle of wine—the second most expensive, to be exact.  This was to show that he had the money to purchase it, but had the modesty and culture and knowledge to know that the most expensive bottle wasn’t necessarily the best.  When the client and who I assumed to be his version of Sebastian arrived, I confirmed that I didn’t recognize either of them.  With the way that James had spoken about them, I’d assumed that they were just as big outside the criminal underworld as they were in it.

            But no, I didn’t recognize the two average-looking men in front of me.  The only thing that would have made them stand out were their British accents, but after spending two years abroad, this was more normal to my ears than not. 

            The only thing that interrupted the flow of their conversation was our server, who had come only a few times to check how our food was after we’d ordered it.  Otherwise, everything went smoothly to a point where one of them would ask my opinion on something, despite me hardly knowing a thing about what they did.  In fact, I had no idea what they did, or what kind of deal they had with James.  Mostly, I was wondering just why I was here in the first place—save for offering a comment here or there, my only use seemed to be eating my spaghetti and drinking my wine like the good wife that I was, acting as another symbol of James’ status. 

            For the most part, I’d zoned them out except for when they said my name.  The less I knew about either of the two men sitting across from James and me, the better.  And then they’d said something that stuck with me for the following year.  “Did you hear about what happened to my men in that warehouse?”

            I stopped chewing my food.  James shifted in his seat, eyes furrowed.  “No,” he said, concern dripping in his voice.  “What happened?”

            The client shrugged grandiosely.  “Beats me.  I just show up to work one morning, and two of my men—BAM—dead, soaked in their own blood.  Two bullet holes from the upper window, and nothing but a chair between them.”

            “How horrible.  Do you have any idea who did that?”

            I swallowed my food, which was a rather difficult feat given how dry my mouth had become.  My arms burned, and I wanted to do nothing more than escape.  But if I were to get up and leave at what was supposed to be a hugely interesting story, it’d look nothing but suspicious.  And so I continued to sit in front of the boss of my assailants. 

            “Well, if I’m to be honest, I was hoping you could help me find out.”  The man straightened his tie.  “When I heard you transferred your business to the Americas, I knew I’d have to meet up with you the moment I set foot on this colonial ground.  You’d gone dark for so long, you know.”  He and his assistant sat up a little straighter, leaning ever so slightly forward as though this body language would convince James to take their case.

            “If you wanted a mystery solved, you should have asked Sherlock Holmes,” James mused.

            The man barked out a laugh, startling our neighbors a few tables over.  “That crackpot?  He couldn’t solve a Nancy Drew novel.”

            I couldn’t tell what was rising faster in my throat—anger or vomit. 

            A hand on my arm, on the scars that were covered by my cardigan.  “Are you okay, Sherry?  You look a little pale.”  Fake concern leaked in James’ voice, and I hated it.  I knew he was false, a liar, but I didn’t know that he was disgusting, too.

            “I don’t feel too well.  Maybe something I ate?”  I choked out.  “I’ll be right back.”  With that, I stood, knees wobbly, and made my way to the bathroom.  For the time being, I was glad that I was the only woman at the table—that way, nobody could get their wife to check in on me.  I placed the toilet seat down and sat on it, burying my face in my hands.  He knew.  Of course he knew.  Of course he knew that the men sitting across from us were part of the very reason that I’d gotten attacked.  It was bad that he’d gone and accepted a dinner invitation from them, but it was worse that he’d invited _me_ , too.  That he’d made me look them in the eye unknowingly, to offer opinions, to laugh at their jokes.  And still, I couldn’t decide if I felt angry or if I felt sick. 

            My arms burned and they stung and they itched. 

            I had to come up with a plan to get me out of here.  No matter what plan I came up with, James would know that I was being untruthful.  The trick was to make sure that the others didn’t know that.  And quickly, the four walls of the stall began to close in on me, and my heartrate was increasing at a rapid pace.  I had to get out of here, and I had to be convincing.  I had to be quick.  I had to do what I needed to do.

            My plan was simple.  I stood up and lifted the toilet seat cover.  Anybody could do what I was about to do.  I shoved my fingers down my throat, and let the contents of my meal spill out of me.  All that was left when I was done was a horrid, bitter taste in my mouth and a sense of disgust.  But it was worth it if that meant that I could leave.  I flushed the toilet and waiting a minute or two for good measure, trying to gain back the equilibrium I’d just lost.  And finally I stumbled out of the bathroom, pretending that I’d thrown up naturally.  All I had to do was put one foot in front of the other now, and hope that being sick had done the job. 

            When I finally made it back to my seat, I sat silently, and drank a sip of water to get the taste out of my mouth.  James looked at me, a flash of concern written on his face.  “Are you okay?”

            I nodded, pretending that I was trying to save face for the sake of the dinner, and not trying to leave early. 

            The other two seemed to have caught on.  “A lady who can’t hold her wine, hmm?”

            With my napkin spread in my lap, I picked up my fork and knife and pretended to begin to dig in again.  “Must not have sat well,” was all I said in return.  I shoved a bite in my mouth and swallowed it, the flavors deadening against the leftover acidic taste.

            The client peered at me with a bemused expression on his face before turning to James.  “Well, I’m about done, anyways.  I’ll foot the bill, you just take your lady home.  See you before I leave?”

            James stood and shook his hand.  “You can count on it.”  And with that, he extended his hand to me as an act of false public kindness—I could tell he knew exactly what I had done and exactly why—which I begrudgingly took.  Back in the car, he clenched the steering wheel and said nothing on our ride home.  That night I slept in the guest bedroom, as far away as I could get from him. 

            And now I was expected to do it all over again.


	6. Heinous Deeds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's that little Christmas gift I promised y'all: http://archiveofourown.org/works/13182636 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this chapter, as always, I'd love to hear what you think <3

            “You look nice.”

            “Thanks.  You too.”  I’d worn the little black dress again, as he requested.  I sat down in the passenger seat, hating the fact that we were going to meet another client and his wife, but I was going to do what I said I was going to do.

            “You said you weren’t going to complain,” he said, sitting down in the driver’s seat.

            “And I’m not.”  I wasn’t, truthfully.  But I also wasn’t going to act excited about something I dreaded.  It was just a dinner, I told myself.  And the chances of it being the same man or someone from the same warehouse were slim.  Besides, even _I_ didn’t think James was so cruel as to bring me to a dinner with him twice.  After the first one, he said nothing of it, and I’d long since abandoned the hope that he would admit some sort of apology. 

            “You could at least pretend that you’re enjoying yourself…?”

            To that, I said nothing.  What was going to come out of my mouth would have just made things worse than they already were.  I could have possibly pretended that I was enjoying myself if he could have possibly kept his promise and pretended to love me.  But, apparently that was too much to ask.  To be fair, though, had he asked that of me, I didn’t know whether I could do it.  However, the difference between us was that I was simply average, and that people could learn to love me.  Him, on the other hand, he was a force to be reckoned with—his anger, his manipulation, and his willpower.  To love him surely meant that you’d be destroyed.  I realized that a long time ago, and I didn’t want to learn the same lesson twice.

            As though reading my mind, he reached over and grabbed my hand.  “Thanks for coming with me.”

            I looked up at him, glancing at his profile as he drove through the city.  The light was hitting him just right, as was his luck—things always seemed to aid in his romanticization, but at least now I knew to keep my wits about me.  “You’re welcome.”  I didn’t get hopeful this time.

            Like some sort of good wife from the fifties, I took his arm when we arrived at the restaurant, and smiled when we met our companions.  Once we were all settled at our table with food and wine, the man in the couple began immediately talking to James, delving into some conversation about stock prices and shipping costs.  He had left his wife to flounder alongside me, not caring to try to invite her into the conversation. 

            As it turned out, her name was Maureen and she was delightful.  We discussed what I imagined a hitman’s socialite wife would discuss—fashion, books, plans for the future.  She wanted three children, but he was just _so_ busy that there simply wasn’t any time to discuss the finances much less do anything about it.  And how many did _I_ want to have?  In all honesty, I’d wanted to say none, given how things were, but I lied and said that oh, maybe one or two, but we’ll have to see where things go.  She fully supported this lying sentiment of mine.

            In fact, she seemed fully supportive in general.  Her eyes sparkled, and there was something genuine about her character that I appreciated.  The more I talked with her, the more I came to realize that she wasn’t just a socialite, but an _ignorant_ socialite.  She had no idea what her husband did, and that became clearer and clearer as she talked about what her husband did.  “Oh, he sells scrap metal to other businesses who then refurbish it for their own purposes.  The industry has really grown in the past couple of years, what with how corporations are trying to be more eco-friendly to attract more millennial customers.”

            “Huh.  That’s really cool.  I’m glad that that’s becoming more of a reality these days.”  And I was glad that she had no idea what her husband really did.  I was also livid.  Why did she get to live in a fantasy, one where her husband came to bed every night, and I didn’t?  And who was he to keep such vital information away from her?  Was it simply to protect her, or was it because there was simply no reason for him to tell her?  And while I was glad that she was happy—for no matter how upset I was, I wouldn’t have wished anything less for her—I was upset that the same sort of ignorance couldn’t have been afforded to me.

            I looked to James.  Why couldn’t he have still been Richard?  Maybe pretending to love me really _was_ too much effort—after all, I was only a contingency plan.  That was my role, first and foremost. 

            My phone let out an unexpected ring from my purse.  I reached down and rejected the call, which I noted was from work before I put the phone back in my bag.  “Sorry,” I told everyone at the table, resuming my conversation with Maureen. 

            It rang again.  I issued my apologies, grabbed my phone and rushed out.  It wasn’t like them to continue calling without leaving a message.  “Hello?”

            As it would turn out, I was saved by the bell.  Well, more or less.  Something had gone wrong at a show, which meant I had to leave and try to help correct it.  And there was a reporter in the audience, which meant I had to give a statement.  The first, I could deal with.  The second sent anxiety down my spine.  At the afterparty, I had a script.  I had nothing for this.  There were only so many worst-case scenarios, right? 

            When I walked back to the table, I grabbed my purse, and haphazardly explained that something had happened at work and that I’d be back shortly, and that it was only a few blocks away, so I didn’t need the car.  James looked a little suspicious, but Maureen waved her hands at me saying, “Go, go!”

            And so I walked out the door, not caring if James was upset with me or not.  It wasn’t like I was faking it this time, or that I’d planned for this to happen.  It was just that luck was on my side for once.  Thankful that it wasn’t raining, I walked quickly down the street, formulating ideas on what to say for the reporter.  A light had burst in the middle of the performance, shocking everyone in the auditorium, and harming nobody.  But there was still the underlying question of safety procedures and who had checked them last and what I was going to say to calm the mob mentality.  And, I had to say this all concisely, confidently, and precisely.

            Two brutish laughs interrupted my thoughts.  “Hey baby girl, how much are you worth?” 

            My cheeks flushed.  I looked toward the source of my newfound embarrassment.  Two men, leaning against the wall near the alleyway.  I caught their eye, and I looked away.

            “Hey now, don’t be shy!  We’re good guys!”

            Of course they were.  Every brutish man ended up being a good guy at the end of the day.      

            “Don’t worry about them.  They’re below you.”  A protective hand slid around my waist and propelled me faster to my destination.

            “What are you doing here?”  I looked to James, eyebrows raised.

            He shrugged and looked behind us, peering back at the two men.  “After you left, Maureen expressed that she was a little worried now that it’s dark out.”

            “So you followed me to keep up appearances?”       

            “Mmm-hmm.”

            “And what appearances were those?  A master criminal that cares about his wife?”

            “Something like that.”

            We continued walking.  The theatre was just two blocks away now.  “That’s a nice change of pace.”

            Silence consumed us until we reached the front doors.  The ushers, recognizing me, let me in and allowed access to James.  It felt good to be the one in control, to be the one whom he depended on for access, even for something as small as that.  A crowd of people were getting drinks and snacks at the impromptu intermission while the light was being repaired, yet I couldn’t find the person that had called me nor somebody that vaguely resembled a reporter.

            And then I could.  They were in the back, talking, and my coworker appeared to be more nervous than I felt.  Surely, the person across from them was who I needed to speak with.  But before I could walk over to them, James placed his hand over mine.  “Do you really think that lowly of me?”

            I stared at him blankly.  “Why do you care?  I’m just a contingency plan.”  With that, I sifted between groups of people, making my way over to the back of the hall. 

            “Oh!  Here’s Sherry Brook—she’s the one you want to talk to.  This is Mr. Lewis, the reporter I told you about,” my coworker said, stepping aside.

            We shook hands, and I noticed he looked me over.  “You look awfully made up for rushing over here.”  Had I known any better, I would have imagined a trilby atop his head, a cigar in his mouth, and a glass of whiskey in his hand.  Maybe he wasn’t unethical, but he seemed sleazy nonetheless.

            “I was at dinner, luckily just a few blocks down.  When I heard what happened, I rushed over here as quickly as I could.  How can I help you?”

            “Well, about the light that exploded earlier…”  He began, leading into a slew of questions about how frequently we got repairs, when the last time we’d gotten a safety inspection was, and how often this sort of thing happened.  Just to be thorough, of course.  He kept asking questions, every now and then interjecting a snide comment about how this sort of thing probably wouldn’t have happened under the _real_ artistic director.  But, we made it through, the light was repaired, and a bell chimed to let the audience know that the play was back on. 

            I handed the reporter my business card and told him to feel free to follow up on anything else, or that if he had any other questions he could most certainly contact me there.  I said all this with a placating smile, in hopes that he wouldn’t actually reach out to me.  This one conversation had been enough for the next year.

            The crowd in the hall dissipated, making it easier for me to find James and return to our meal.  Only twenty minutes had passed, and I hoped that his client and Maureen hadn’t left—I rather liked Maureen.  James took my hand and led me outside, leading the way back to the restaurant.  “How was it?”

            “Less nervewracking once I saw what a jerk he was, though I might have to readjust my opinion once I see the review he wrote.”  I rubbed my eye with my free hand and yawned.  “He made it rather clear to me that the artistic director—not the assistant—would have done a better job.  But that’s life, I guess.”

            “It certainly is,” he said, craning his neck to look further ahead.  Another block or two down were ambulances and police cars, all flashing their lights.  Sirens and ambulances were a normal occurrence in the city, but every time I passed one on the road, I felt some sort of innate curiosity despite knowing that something terrible had happened.  I knew that if it was me in that situation, I certainly wouldn’t want any onlookers to my misfortune.  But still, I looked. 

            Police tape sectioned off the alleyway, and police officers were ushering onlookers away.  Whatever happened there was serious, something terrible.  It wasn’t possible that there was a murderer in our midst, was it?  Well, besides James.  But I didn’t know what was more terrifying: a murderer employed by James, or one who wasn’t.  Knowing so little about his business had left me ignorant once before, and it hadn’t been a pleasant feeling.  I didn’t want to feel like that again.

            And then I caught a glimpse.  Two bodies, and a pool of blood.  They were the men that had catcalled me not even twenty minutes prior.  I looked a little harder.  Their bodies were fine, despite being soaked in red, but their heads were covered with an impromptu blanket while the police were waiting for the ambulances to take out body bags.  The sickness that I felt as we returned to the restaurant was real, this time.  There was no need to fake it.  I felt sick for the victims, and sick for knowing that there was now something darker going on beneath the city.  Before we entered the restaurant once again, I turned to James.  “How long has Sebastian been here?”


End file.
